


Detonation in 3,2,1...

by sherloe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, First Time, M/M, POV Second Person, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Top John Watson, Virgin Sherlock, sad gay babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 12:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1605107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherloe/pseuds/sherloe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a bomb and Sherlock Holmes has pulled the blue wire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detonation in 3,2,1...

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite a different style of writing than I'm used to using, so I wasn't too sure about it, but in the end I think it turned out okay. I might go back and tweak a couple things, but I hope you guys enjoy it :)

John Watson is a bomb. He is meticulously put together, not strand of wire out of place, not one chemical incorrectly mixed. He is carefully designed, therefore careful. Put together with a steady hand, therefore steady. Created in destruction's wish, therefore tragically, completely destructive.

So when you look at him with your big, vulnerable blue eyes from where you sit in the living room on your knees, weeping, and your heart is pounding in your chest and a sheen of sweat is blooming on your brow because you expect detonation in 3...2...1..., and what you don't expect is him to raise a hand to your cheek and swipe a tear gently from your milky cheekbone. You don't expect him to kneel down in front you, eye-level, equal, as you are, cup your face and place an earth shattering light kiss on your trembling lips. What you expect is an explosion. You expect yelling, hitting, names and accusations spit out at you like daggers. You expect to see him march out of the flat, the back of his jumper being the last thing you will ever see of him.

So when he pulls you into his arms, whispers "it's okay, it's okay, I'm so sorry, it's okay", you are shocked. Confused. You pulled the blue wire.

You should be ash.

But you're still here, so you wrap your arms around his waist and cry into his chest, shake his body with your cries, and that's when you realize...John Watson did explode. Not with malice or violence or anger, no. And not on this night. But he did go off, a long time ago, you did pull the blue wire, and John Watson exploded with love. And he did lay waste to you. He wiped you clean the day the two of you met and built you up better, and you will remember from this day on that John Watson made you new, and you gladly stepped back and let him insert himself into your being, he made himself a part of you, and now...now without him you aren't you. There is not a version of you in this world that exists without John Watson.

So you pull your tear-stained face from his solid chest, and let him look into you with his stormy, thunderous eyes. He takes your face into his strong hands, kisses the salty tears away with his soft lips, leaving whispers on your skin that give you goosebumps until he reaches your mouth and dives. He plunges right into your heart, licking your lips open, and slicking your tongues together, he dances on your teeth and on the roof of your mouth, pulling high whimpers from you and you let him _take_.

And fuck if this isn't what you were put on this earth to do, to feel his hands sliding your cotton tshirt over your head, and his open mouth on the fluttering pulse in your neck, and his heaving chest against yours. Fuck everything that held you back from colliding inevitably with this man. Fuck if you wasted _years_ not taking advantage of this. Fuck if you were too damn _blind_ to see what was in front of you. Fuck if you didn't fight for it when you finally did.

His hands are on your bare skin now, palms brushing over your peaked nipples, down your too-prominent ribs, onto your lean stomach, over boney hips, onto your lower back, thumbs petting the dimples above the rise of your bum, up the knobs of your spine. He is everywhere. You feel his tongue swipe over a scar on your shoulder, over and over, as if the erosion of his tongue can make it disappear. His fingers trace constellations of the freckles on your back, and you can do nothing but hang on for dear life. It's only when he whispers your name and slips his hand over the crotch of your loose pajama bottoms, cupping your half erect cock that you move. Your body arches against his and your hands shoot up to bury themselves into his short hair and you let out a ragged " _please!_ " so he stands up, pulling you with him, grabs your thighs and picks you right up off the damn floor.

And you're done for.

You wrap your legs around his strong middle as he walks you to your bedroom, your cock fully hard and leaking against your stomach now, and you know that after this night you cannot have John Watson and not have this part of him, too. To have this man and not have every single fucking perfect part of him would be a tragedy. So you clutch to him tighter as he lays you out on your bed, pulling him down onto you, and breathe him in. Your sheets will smell like him in the morning. You find yourself hoping they smell like him every morning for the rest of your lives.

He says your name. How sweet it sounds coming from him. So different, so unusual compared how to people usually say it, regularly uttered bitterly like a swear word. It never sounds like that when he says it.

You nod in reply, struck silent by the great, small, larger-than-life-its-fucking-self, humble man you hold in your arms. He balances himself on his elbows, dips his head to suckle at your jaw, hears you moan quietly, suckles harder. Your eyes are squeezed shut as your hands slide down his back and back up under his jumper and you wonder why it's still on his body. You tug it up until it gets caught, bunched up between your chests because _you just can't stop kissing him_ long enough to properly dispose of clothing. He lets out a short chuckle, sitting up to dispose of _all_ his clothing, to your great pleasure. You follow, shucking off your pajama bottoms, and sit face to face with him, on your knees, mirroring your positions in the sitting room only now there are no barriers, clothing or otherwise.

Your eyes roam over his bared body, darker than yours, permanently stained by the Afghan sun. Over his broad shoulders, where your gaze lands upon his starburst scar, and you suddenly feel like crying again, because for you that is the scar that will forever define the moment the universe decided to bring him to you. That scar is a physical reminder that he is yours, and you are his. You are embedded in his very skin. Your eyes travel down further, over his chest and soft but flat stomach, over his large and leaking cock, nestled in a thatch of dark blonde hair, down his muscular legs and back up to his face. His beautiful, beautiful face.

Your will crumbles and you need him. Now. So you place your hands on his chest, you plead with your eyes, and he places both of his hands over the ones that rest just over his heart. His strong, beating heart. You lean forward, rest your forehead on your combined pile of hands. 

"Consume me."

It's a whisper.

And he does. He wraps you up in his strong arms, lays you back, and kisses you until you can hardly breathe. He fills your lungs, gives you life, gives your heart a reason to beat. He grabs what he needs out of your bedside table. Your head spins.

_Oh, John..._

You feel slippery-warm fingers slip in between your cheeks, they brush over your entrance, and suddenly you're shaking. He soothes with soft kisses to your chest, your face, feather-light and comforting as he becomes the first person to explore you. The pressure of his fingers increase and then two are suddenly inside you and it's strange but good, so very good, and he's stretching you, slipping in and out, twisting, scissoring, pushing in and then...

"JOHN!"

You have never felt anything more intense in your life. Not the purest of heroine could top this.

Your arched back falls back onto the bed and you need him to do that again, but you need more, so much more. You need him to fill you. So when you tell him this, he kisses you hard and deep, slicks a hand over himself, pushes his arms under your shoulders and into your hair, and with your legs wrapped around his waist, he pushes into you.

This is John Watson, atom bomb, taking your virginity.

It's slow. Achingly slow. Gorgeously, impossibly _slow_ , . And you can feel _everything_. His skin, his heat, you feel it all and it honest to god makes you wish he could stay inside you forever. His hips are finally resting against your backside, his cock inside you, impaling you in your core. He is a part of your physical body now, and it was always going to happen, so when asks how you're doing, you look him in the eyes and say "I feel safe" because it's the truth. For the first time in your fucking life, here, with John as close to you as he can physically get, you feel safe.

And when he starts to move you're wondering why fireworks aren't going off outside because the way this feels, the slide of his cock in and out of your body, is certainly something worth celebrating. And when he hits that spot again (and again and again and again), you half expect the sun to implode because it is no longer worthy to shine upon an earth where this sensation exists. You're whimpering and moaning into his neck, completely unaware that you're doing so, not caring anyway. He is thrusting into you harder, he is deeper than ever and you can't believe how much better it feels than a few minutes ago but it very well fucking does, and he is pounding into you and you're wondering for the first time if souls are a physical part of the human body because you swear to god he's inside it. His grip tightens on your hair and you throw your head back against his clutched hands, and your balls are tightening and you're seeing stars and he says "that's it, love, come for me" and something rips through you, robbing you of all of your senses except for the feeling of this pleasure crashing down on you, drowning you, killing you, and then reviving you.

You don't know how much time passes before you open your eyes. Maybe ten seconds, maybe ten minutes, maybe ten hours, but you suddenly don't care because you open your eyes and see John and he sees you see him so leans forward, captures your lips sweetly with his and doesn't let go for several seconds. He tries cleaning the both of you up with your cotton pajama bottoms, gets most of the mess, throws the soiled material to the side and wraps you up under the sheets and into his arms.

Neither of you say anything as you fall asleep. Nothing needs to be said. The fact that his heart beat is directly under your ear, the fact that you can hear and touch and taste and smell him is all that needs to be said for this moment. So you close your eyes and thank whoever might be out there--if there is anyone--that you pulled the blue wire that caused John Watson to blow up and turn you to ash.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that's it! I know there's absolutely 0 explanation as to how they got into this situation, but my wee brain is trying to piece together a prequel that will tie in everything. All I know at the moment is that it's Mary's fault. 
> 
> Anyway, please leave kudos or comments, I'd love your feedback :)


End file.
